


The Happy Hour

by TheChainLink



Category: Original Work
Genre: Late at Night, Mild Language, Mysterious Town, Mystery, Old English Pub, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheChainLink/pseuds/TheChainLink
Summary: When two hikers arrive in a mysterious town after dark, they decide to stop at a local pub.What begins as a simple rest stop turns out to be the tip of an iceberg...
Kudos: 1





	The Happy Hour

Dan could understand why it was called magic hour.

As he and John reached the crest of the hill, the sun had just begun its descent beneath the horizon, glowing red and turning the sky a deep pink hue. The surrounding landscape was fading from steely winter grey to deep pitch black against the dying light. With the hills all around them the area seemed closed off from the outside, as if it were its own little part of the world. 

For a moment everything else simply melted away: the sweat on his brow, the weight of the rucksack on his back, his own breathing; nothing else mattered. There was only him and the sunset.

‘Hey man,’ he heard John say. ‘How much longer are we gonna carry on like this?’

Dan scanned the landscape, his gaze settling on a scattering of lights at the foot of the hill, no more than a mile away; a village.

And there, at the other end of the valley, was an opening between two hills where the thin black thread of road disappeared entirely. Beyond that lay the town of Smith’s Falls. If all went to plan, they would have spent the night there before moving on tomorrow morning. He checked his watch: 7:53pm. At this rate they would be there by midnight. 

Then John grabbed his shoulder. Well, it was more like leaning on it for support – John had never been in the best shape, and Dan saw that he was almost doubled over, looking like he was about to vomit. Red in the face and drenched in sweat, he was in no condition to keep going, even at their leisurely pace.

‘Just a… uh…’ The response died in his mouth.

John craned his neck up to look at him. It reminded Dan of a dog pleading with its owner. 

Dan took another quick glance at the valley floor and found salvation: at the foot of the hill, a mercifully gradual downward slope, stood a small, rustic-style building – a pub or inn of some sort, the picture-perfect type that belonged on the front of a postcard. He looked over at John, who had clearly had the same idea. There was that pleading dog-stare again, this time with a glitter of light in the centre.

Dan rolled his eyes in mock annoyance and smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s get you a drink.’

John’s face lit up. Dan walked over to him and bent down a little so John could lean on him for support. 

‘Can you carry my pack?’ John asked hopefully.

‘Don’t push your luck.’ Dan replied.

They made their way down the slope, a gradual downward slope that they could traverse without fear of losing their balance. As the building grew closer and closer, Dan kept expecting it to disappear; it just seemed too good to be true. Yet a few minutes later they were standing on the doorstep. The sign above the door depicted a full tankard reflected into half-a-dozen copies. John had to squint to make out the words ‘The Smoke and Mirrors’ written in silver paint against a black background. Speaking of squinting…

‘Are you sure this place is open?’ John asked. ‘I mean… look at it!’ He gestured around him. They were in almost total darkness, with their only light coming from the setting sun.

Dan peered in through the window; he could just make out four people – three men and a woman – sitting at the bar.

‘Sure it is. Look, there are people inside.’

John walked over to the door and gave it an experimental push. It swung open, and a brief snippet of blues music drifted out on the evening air before being cut off as the door closed. That seemed good enough for John, who headed inside without another word.

Dan went to follow him and caught the door before it closed. There were three jagged lines carved into the wood just above his eye level. He barely gave them a glance as he pushed the door aside and was greeted by a waft of lukewarm air and a harsh bark of words:

‘Okay, people! Last orders please!’

Followed by another:

‘You have got to be kidding!’ John’s voice, very much annoyed.

Stepping inside, Dan’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light, enough to get a good look at his surroundings. Much of the room seemed shrouded in shadow, as though it were reluctant to show itself. Ancient paint had cracked and crumbled, patched up with pictures indiscernible in the gloom. A battered old jukebox sat in the corner, droning away a crackling Ray Charles song as the last patrons finished their drinks and began to file out in a drunken line. Here was a place that was not so much fading away as it was stagnating, quietly continuing to exist as the rest of the world passed it by.

Over at the bar, John was in the midst of a heated argument with a full-faced man with a thick white beard who Dan could only assume was the barkeeper. Both men were growing red in the face, flecks of spit flying as they shouted to be heard above the other. Dan had seen John lose control of himself like this more times than he could count, and it nearly always ended with a trading of blows and bloody knuckles. For someone who had been on the brink of exhaustion mere minutes before, John was giving it both barrels. Shaking his head, Dan hurried over.

‘All I’m looking for is ten minutes! Ten minutes and a bloody drink! Is that so much to ask?’ John barked.

The barman opened his mouth to reply before noticing Dan. ‘Are you with him?’ he demanded, his voice heavy with a Northern accent.

Dan nodded. The man continued, ‘Tell your friend to piss off. I’ll say it one more time: WE. ARE. CLOSING!’ He spoke slowly and loudly, as though he were talking to a simpleton.

‘But it’s barely even sunset.’ Dan protested. He was careful to keep his voice down so as not to provoke the man any further. ‘Surely we can at least sit in for a few minutes.’

John spread his hands wide to the barman in a smug see what I mean gesture and sat down on one of the stools. 

Something seemed to click into place in the barman’s mind; when he spoke again his voice was level, almost calm. ‘You boys aren’t from around here, are you?’

‘No, sir.’ Dan replied. ‘We’re from Moorford, about fifty miles from here.’

The barman nodded. ‘I see. So what brings you here? Our little town doesn’t offer much for tourists.’ 

‘We’re just passing through. We’re on our way to Smith’s Falls.’

The barman thought for a moment. ‘That’s on the other side of the valley, past the marshes.’

‘Yes, we know.’ Dan said. ‘We were going to stay the night here. Do you know if there’s a place for us to stay, or-‘

‘You won’t find any hotels in that village down there. When I first came here there were two of them, real nice places. Now one of them’s gone and the other one’s a restaurant. Plus there’s a storm coming. I reckon it’ll be here by tomorrow.’ He added this last part almost as an afterthought. 

John finally spoke up. ‘You’re saying that nobody ever stops around here when they have a flat tyre, or they just want a weekend in the country?’ 

The barman shook his head. ‘This isn’t the place for a weekend getaway. Anyone around here will tell you that.’

‘The hell is that supposed to mean?’ John snapped. 

The barman opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a small ringing sound from behind. Dan turned around to identify the source: a grubby brass bell hanging beside the pub’s door, still swinging back and forth. Whatever little warmth the pub had had to offer suddenly seemed to dissipate, to be replaced by lifeless, empty air. The bell continued its incessant ringing as the door was blown open by some noiseless gust of wind. 

Dan looked back and saw the barman’s eyes widen. ‘You boys have to go. Now.’

John had barely opened his mouth to protest when the barman rushed out from behind the bar, grabbed them both by the scruffs of their necks and began hauling them towards the door. Dan was aware of the silent wind growing stronger, rushing around them, through them, before they were carried out into the almost pitch-black night and dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. 

Within moments John was back up and brushing himself off, his face like thunder. ‘What the hell was that for?’ he roared.

The barman was less than sympathetic. ‘If you want hospitality, then come by tomorrow. I don’t have time for outsiders.’ He looked down at Dan, then back at John. Something about it unnerved Dan – it was as though he was sizing them up. ‘I’ve a feeling you boys will be back.’ 

With that, he shut the door. 

‘Prick.’ John muttered. He noticed Dan on the ground next to him and offered him a hand. ‘You okay?’ he asked. 

‘Fine.’ He said, getting up. 

‘What do you think that was about?’ 

Before Dan could reply he was blinded by a sudden glare of light. As his eyes adjusted he realised that the windows were now filled with bright orange light, bathing them in a warm glow. At the same time muffled jazz music began to blare from within. It was as though the building itself had come to life. The two of them could only stare. 

After what felt like an eternity of stunned silence, Dan could only manage: ‘Why…’

John cut him off. ‘I don’t know. Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t know. I’ve seen enough weird crap for tonight.’ 

‘So what do we do? You heard him – there’s nowhere to stay around here, and I doubt you want to walk any further.’

‘Simple.’ John replied, slipping his rucksack off his shoulders and placing it on the ground. He started fumbling with the straps holding his folding tent.

Dan shook his head. ‘You cannot be serious.’ Even before the words left his mouth he knew there would be no convincing him; John already had his tent unfolded and was in the middle of pitching it.

John paused. ‘Why not?’

‘Here, of all places?’ Dan gestured towards the pub. ‘That guy was able to carry us both one-handed without breaking a sweat! Can you imagine what he’ll do to us when he finds us squatting right outside?’

By this point John’s tent was fully set up in all its neon-blue plastic canvas glory. ‘If he doesn’t want us here, then he can come out and tell us. Now go set your tent up.’ John told him.

Without another word, John grabbed his rucksack and took out his sleeping bag. For about five seconds Dan stood poised on a reply before giving up entirely. He could tell that neither of them were in the mood for another argument, and the thought of walking any further suddenly made him feel sick to the stomach. Ever since they had been forced outside, exhaustion had hit him like an aftershock, as though his brain had been reminded that he had just walked twenty miles in half as many hours. A yawn had been building in the back of his throat; letting it out felt like his entire body was unwinding at once. He found himself unstrapping his own pack, and withing minutes his tent was set up and he was sliding into his own sleeping bag.

Questions searched for answers in his tired mind, arriving at ones that either did not exist or were simply absurd. The absurd ones were what concerned him; while the others languished quietly in the unknown, these endless what-ifs were left to run free in his imagination like undisciplined children: the suspicious barman and his eerie warning, the pub coming alive after closing time, the silent winds; enigmas turning over and over, shifting around, always refusing to fit together, as though he was trying to combine jigsaw pieces from different puzzles.

By now utterly exhausted, Dan closed his eyes and let sleep consume him.


End file.
